The Invisible String Theory

Chapter 4 - Where the Magic Lingered

"That's not a no"

His jaw flexed. "I don't like being...pulled." That made something stir inside me. I could've teased him. But instead, I let the moment settle. Let the music carry us, slow and quiet. The drink dulled my usual guard. And I liked the way his eyes shifted– like he wasn't sure what I was thinking, or worse, what he was.

The last note lingered in the air like a held breath. We were still in each other's arms, too close, not moving. I watched his throat tighten, his eyes flickered down again– at my hands, at the space between us. Which wasn't much at all. Then he stepped back. Quick. Too quick. Like he was trying to outrun something.

"Well," I said lightly, "looks like that drink has my name on it." He didn't stop me, but his eyes followed me as I walked– like the music hadn't fully let him go.

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Loki's POV

I hate this.
I hate what she does to me—how her presence claws through the armor I've spent centuries forging. I hate how the bond has become a thread wrapped around something I swore I'd buried. I hate that she's seen the fray in my edges and still draws closer, not out of cruelty—but curiosity. And worst of all? I don't want her to stop. I shouldn't want any of this. Not the heat in her eyes when she looks at me like she's trying to read me like a half-burnt page. Not the warmth that lingers where her hand touched my shoulder. Not the ache in my chest that isn't mine alone—can't be mine alone. The bond pulls, yes, but it doesn't command. It doesn't force this... wanting. That's all me. And I despise it. She thinks she knows. She sees the way I look at her when I think she isn't watching—she feels it, I know she does. There's a flicker in her expression when our eyes meet, like she's holding something in her mouth she can't quite say. As if she's afraid she might taste the truth of it. But she stays near. Dances close. Leans in when she laughs. It's maddening. If this town had any real magic left in it, I could blame the air, the atmosphere, some errant charm. But there's no magic here. Only candlelight, wine, and her—unadorned and dangerous in a way she doesn't understand. Or maybe she does. Maybe that's what's most dangerous of all. She's playing with fire, and I'm starting to think she knows exactly where to hold the flame. So I pull away. Because it's easier than falling forward. Because if she keeps looking at me like that—like I'm something good, something real—I'm not sure I'll remember how to lie to her.

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The drink hit harder than I expected. Or maybe it was the dancing. Or him. Either way the cobbled streets of Liora Vale had started to blur at the edges, swaying gently beneath my feet like the sea.

"I'm fine," I said for the third time, waving him off as we stepped away from the festival square. "Perfectly upright, mostly."

Loki's hand stayed at the small of my back, not quite touching, but always ready. "Your definition of 'upright' is suspect."

I turned my head toward him as we walked, narrowing my eyes. "You're judging me."

"Only a little."

"I saw you back there, " I said, poking him in the arm. "All stiff and sulking while everyone else was having fun. You're lucky I didn't throw you into the next circle of dancers.

"You tried," he muttered.

I laughed. It echoed off the lantern lit buildings a chime.  "You liked it."

"I endured it."

"Oh, come on. Admit it." I slowed, half turning to him. "You were... almost smiling."